


The Good, the Bad, and the Painfully Oblivious

by K9Lasko



Category: NCIS
Genre: Awkwardness, Challenge Response, Community: nfacommunity, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:20:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6049681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K9Lasko/pseuds/K9Lasko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should've seen this one coming. </p><p>EDITED 2/24/16.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Good, the Bad, and the Painfully Oblivious

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the NFA Awkward Romance challenge. I had fun with this... at Tony's expense. :)  
> Songs borrowed for this story include “Green Eyes” by Coldplay and “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley.

 

There he was, early morning on a Friday, leaning against the cubicle wall like he'd been waiting there for a while. He wore a small grin, something between bashful and beguiling, and it made McGee pause as he dropped his daily miscellanea of things on his desk. McGee sat slowly on his chair, but only caught the corner of it, which made for an awkward shimmy-shuffle back fully onto it.

"Good morning," Tony spoke first. His steady gaze gave nothing away.

Tim waited patiently for the punchline of a joke he knew he probably wouldn't like. But when Tony didn't move to say or do anything else (and when he discovered his keyboard was not in fact covered in superglue), he broke the silence: "Are you OK?"

"I'm great. You?" Tony replied.

Narrowing his eyes, McGee knew this had to be some sort of trap. "Fine."

More silence. More staring.

This was getting weird.

"Look Tony," McGee said, "Gibbs is expecting a detailed report on the Sanchez case, so I really gotta—"

"I know. That's why I got here early and finished it for you. It's in your email inbox."

McGee blinked and then noticed that his jaw was hanging open. He clicked open the attachment on the email sent from "DiNozzo, Anthony" and briefly skimmed over the twenty-five page document, complete with all of the proper attachments and exhibits. Then he looked back up at Tony. He said, "Thank you… I guess." He skimmed through the document again. It was written in Tony's terse, to-the-point police report language he'd come to easily recognize — all of the requisite conventions had been employed, no detail had been left to imagination. Then he said it again, a bit more heartfelt: "Thanks, Tony." After which he inwardly asked, _Now what do you want from me?_

Tony shrugged and said, "I know you've been a bit, uh… _you know_ , since Delilah... _you know._ "

It was McGee's turn to shrug. "I'm fine about it. Really. It was mutual." He looked at his computer and fully expected Tony to take the hint and retreat to his own side. But he didn't. He was still standing there with that weird look on his face, as if he wasn't sure about something. Tim didn't want to talk about Delilah. He didn't want to think about Delilah. She had said her piece, and said it loudly. She wasn't moving back, and he wasn't moving over there. Nobody was moving anywhere, and neither was their relationship, so Delilah — ever the pragmatic one — had decided to pull the plug and Tim hadn't disagreed.

Those were the facts.

"Tim—" Tony wheedled.

"It was mutual," McGee snapped as he stared a hole through his monitor. "I'm fine." He almost had himself convinced. "Everything is good." If he kept saying it, he'd be over this by next week.

Tony finished, "I was actually going to ask you over for dinner."

Tim made a face. "For dinner?"

"Yeah, dinner. You, me, and spaghetti bolognese in front of the television… It'll be fun, right? So—"

"You want me to come over for dinner?" McGee repeated. And then again, "For dinner?" For some reason, Tony's words ran over and over again in McGee's head. _For dinner. For dinner. For dinner._ It was true they'd hung out with each other before. Take out or a few beers, a good game or something else on television, bitching about the job or failed relationships or just shitty circumstances and disappointments in general. But it was the "for dinner" that suddenly held more weight.

_For dinner. For dinner._

"What, are your circuits crossed, McGlitch?"

"Huh?"

"You want to come over or not?"

"Sure?"

"That a question or an answer?" Tony asked impatiently. He apparently wasn't used to any dinner invitation of his being waffled over.

McGee's palms were sweating, and it was entirely inexplicable. What was going _on_? "No, I mean, yeah, I mean… Sure, yeah? Yes. Yes!" He brought himself back down a notch or two. "Uh, thanks for the invite. What time?"

"Well," Tony glanced at his watch. "Provided we don't catch a good case at some point today, how about 1900?"

"Okay."

Tony smiled like he'd just won… something. Tim couldn't figure out what.

\+ + +

1900 came and went, but it eventually brought Tim to Tony's front door after being buzzed in via the intercom. The door swung open one millisecond after he knocked, and Tony looked him up and down and said, "Hey! I was about to send out the search party. Come on in."

Tony's apartment was as it always was. Mostly impersonal and neatly kept, except for the breakfast table near the living room, which harbored a stubborn encampment of papers and magazines and books with one bulky, aging laptop in the center of it all.

And it smelled… really good, actually. "Italian?" McGee asked, lamely, suddenly adrift in a scene he had no script for. He tugged nervously at his shirt sleeves. Was he overdressed? Underdressed? Why was he worried? This was dinner. Just dinner. He clung to the bottle of wine he'd brought like it was a lifeline. Why did he bring wine? That just screamed… what did it scream? Wasn't like this was a date…. A date? McGee coughed into the crook of his arm. That would be a funny joke.

No one was laughing.

"I wasn't lying about the spaghetti bolognese. It's world famous." Tony grabbed the wine bottle and held it up for inspection. "2013 California Cabernet Sauvignon. Decent, McSommelier. I'm sure it was a great drug store find." Tony winked.

Maybe Tony knew him a bit too well.

"Uh, they always have a decent selection," Tim rambled. "And it's, you know, within budget, which—"

But Tony had already disappeared into the kitchen where he rattled around a few saucepans and a pot of boiling water. He called out, "Go ahead and sit down or something. You're making me nervous."

Tim left his leather jacket on the coat rack by the door, and wandered from the foyer area to the living room. The mess on the breakfast table seemed to have spread to the coffee table. Although this mess looked like it had been semi organized into sloppy stacks and moved to one side. Near the opposite wall, he briefly peered into the fish bowl and watched Kate and Ziva swimming around in lazy circles. The water was immaculate.

"You want a glass of this right now?" Tony asked from the kitchen.

"Sure." Tim sat on the couch and stared at the huge television and picked at his jeans. Two pundits were bickering about politics while a third nodded along, dumbly.

Something crashed against the kitchen's tile floor. "Son of a bitch."

"Can I help?"

"No, no."

Tim nodded and continued staring ahead. A picture frame caught his eye on the bookcase. He'd learned that Tony wasn't much for photographs around the house. Curious, he got up to take a closer look at it, and was surprised to find himself and Tony looking back at him from the frame. He tried to remember when it was taken, but nothing rang any bells. But more importantly, why did Tony have a photograph of them displayed in his living room?

"Dinner's ready!" Tony shouted.

Tim jumped and looked around. So was this just dinner or was this _dinner_?

And that's when the panic set in.

\+ + +

After carb-loading on mouthful after mouthful of the world famous spaghetti bolognese — which actually was really, really good — Tim desperately hoped this whole thing would revert back to something somewhat normal. Mindless bullshitting, or Tony rambling on about his patrol cop days, or _something_. He caught Tony watching him and stopped chewing long enough to ask, "What?"

Tony set aside his plate. "Look," he started.

Tim felt his body growing hot, but he couldn't tell if it was from the impending conversation or from the pound of complex carbohydrates he'd just consumed. He kept chewing, just to be safe. If he kept his mouth occupied, it might prevent him from saying something stupid and potentially hurtful.

"You know I'm not the best at saying what I mean when it comes to, you know… stuff. So…" Tony paused, suddenly looking frustrated.

Tim raised his brows. It wasn't often that Tony got caught up on words. He was someone who always knew exactly what to say, and when to say it, and how to say it. Tim often envied that gift. But now Tony seemed honestly flummoxed. "So?" he prompted, trying to help him along a bit.

"Stuff. It's hard. You know... feelings, and stuff."

Now Tim made a face that conveyed honest confusion.

"You know, real stuff. And when you told me about Delilah and you…"

"I don't want to talk about Delilah," Tim said honestly.

"I know, I know. But that's how it all… you know."

"I _don't_ know, Tony. Are you okay?"

Tony didn't answer. He simply got up off the couch, grabbed his own plate, then grabbed Tim's plate — even though Tim was still chewing his last bite — and took them to the kitchen.

"I'll do the dishes." Tim moved to get up. Anything to move this thing along. Then he could come up with some excuse to grab his coat and get the hell out of here. Because Tony was freaking him out, and he wanted no part of any of it.

But Tony was suddenly back in the room, a subtle look of panic on his face. "Screw the dishes! There's something I need to do, so please just… let me do it."

"Okay," Tim said slowly. Maybe Tony was finally cracking up. Tim knew he'd been on the veritable brink ever since Ziva left.

Tony grabbed the guitar from the corner of the room—

 _Had that always been there?_ Tim thought in alarm.

— and moved the coffee table back a bit and sat down on it. A couple stacks of paper fell to the floor, but Tony didn't move to pick them up. "Been learning to play this one song, and it's taken a bit, but I think I got it. I'm better on the piano."

Tim stared at him and nervously gulped down a mouthful of cheap red wine. Then he coughed after swallowing it wrong.

"Don't laugh," Tony said as he began to tune the instrument up a bit and strum it a few times. Then he began to play the simple tune while he sang: " _Green eyes, yeah the spotlight, shines upon you._ " He grinned and looked Tim dead in the eyes.

For his part, Tim had frozen in place on the couch, in horror, wine glass clutched awkwardly in one hand as he struggled to resist the urge to flee the area.

" _And how could… anybody… deny you…_ "

This was happening. He was being serenaded by none other than Tony DiNozzo after some world famous spaghetti bolognese and a bottle of "decent" wine. Oh. My. God. He was being wine and dine'd by Tony DiNozzo. He was being _romanced_ , right here, right now, and Tim hadn't even realized it. Until now. He chugged the wine and wished he'd sprung for the bigger bottle.

" _I came here with a load, and it feels so much liiiiiighter now I met you._ "

Tony was getting into it now.

" _And honey you should know, that I could never goooooo on without you_."

Really getting into it.

" _Green eyes… green eyes. Oh oh uh oh_."

It wasn't perfect, and Tony had to slow down through some of the more technical parts, or pause and do-over the parts he either forgot or got completely wrong. But for the most part he was pretty decent, and the singing wasn't bad either. Again, not perfect — but heartfelt and honest.

And that was the part that scared Tim the most.

" _Green eyes, you're the one that I wanted to fiiiiiiiind!_  
_And aaaanyone who tried to denyyyy you, must be out of their miiiiiiiind!_  
_Because I came here with a looooad, and it feels so much liiiiiighter now I met you._  
_And honey you should knowww, that I could never gooooo on without you_."

It wouldn't end.

" _Honey, you are a rock. Upon which I stand_."

And when it finally did, there was complete and utter silence as Tony waited for some kind of reaction from Tim. But Tim had zero idea what to say because he felt like he'd just been blindsided by his own sheer stupidity and obliviousness — all of which had been laid bare, in his mind at least, by this silly song. Clearly, the two of them weren't on the same page. Hell, they weren't even in the same genre! Tim racked his brain for any tells, any clues, any….

Well, actually there'd been a lot of tells and clues, and now that the bald truth of it was breathing its hot breath all over him… It was obvious, even. But Tony wasn't… And _he_ wasn't… But maybe…

Finally, Tony broke the stalemate. "Please say something."

"Why did you invite me here?" Tim suddenly asked, body rigid and tense.

Tony shrugged and laughed a bit. "For dinner."

"But why?"

Again, Tony shrugged.

"So is it the truth?" Tim pressed.

"Is what the truth?"

"The song."

"It's just a song, Tim," Tony answered quietly, tone strangely defeated. "Doesn't have to mean anything."

"Don't try to snow me like that, Tony. Is it the truth?"

Tony swallowed and answered, "I didn't want to hope you and Delilah wouldn't work out. I wanted it to work out, because you both were happy. But when it didn't, well…"

"Well, it didn't," Tim finished for him. "So now what? You wanna swoop in, huh, and stake your claim?"

"No, it's not like that."

"And you've been hiding this—" Tim pointed at Tony, and then at himself, "—from me for how long? I had no idea, Tony. I had no idea."

Tony stared at the floor as he absentmindedly strummed the guitar. He repeated, "It's not like that."

"Then tell me how it's like."

Again, Tony didn't have the words.

Tim shook his head. "You should have told me." He stood up. For some reason, all he felt was anger, and shock and bitter disbelief that Tony had apparently been quietly harboring these feelings for quite some time-all while Tim stood by, ever oblivious. "This isn't what I want right now. I can't deal with this right now." He paused to watch Tony's face, which betrayed nothing, and then turned to leave.

But Tony caught him by the wrist. "Thanks for coming, and thanks for listening." Then he let him go. "I get it."

"I don't think you do. Whatever you're thinking I'm thinking, it's probably wrong." Tim extracted himself from Tony's grip, grabbed his coat, and walked out the door. He didn't pause to look back. Didn't pause to consider what Tony might be thinking. He just needed out of there, out of that situation. Tim wasn't lying. He couldn't deal with this right now. Not with this strangely angry and self-righteous frame of mind.

\+ + +

Sitting in his car, Tim gripped the steering wheel, keys in the ignition but engine still off, and stared at a half-peeled off Obama-Biden sticker which clung stubbornly to the bumper of the rusted out Toyota parked in front of him. How long, exactly, had Tony been hiding this? And how long, exactly, had Tim been the ignorant party of it? If he had known… If he could have expected it…

Then what? Would it have made Tony's revelation any less shocking? Or any less emotionally moving? And he'd admit that — as corny and cringe-worthy as it was — something about Tony's impromptu serenade was… _endearing_.

Endearing!

Tim yanked hard at the steering wheel as he yelled in frustration. Then he turned the engine on. Then he turned the engine off. He closed his eyes and banged his forehead once or twice against the wheel. Before he knew what he was doing, he was getting out of the car again and locking it. And before he could rationalize the decision he was making, he was already buzzing himself back into Tony's building and already trudging back up the stairs. He needed to deal with this. Right here, right now.

By the time he reached Tony's door, he knew he was completely insane. And by the time Tony opened the door…

They stared at each other. Tim looked for whatever clue he thought he'd missed. He couldn't find it. All he could find was the face of a friend he'd come to count on — the same face he'd come to look for in a crowded place.

"Look, Tim, I'm—" Tony started.

But Tim didn't want to hear it. "You know you could try honesty for once."

Tony frowned.

On impulse alone, Tim reached out and put his hands on Tony's face. Then he leaned forward and shoved their lips together. The kiss was a bit robotic, and off-center, and dry. It wasn't smooth or suave or even vaguely sensuous. And when it was done, Tim pulled back, hands dropping to Tony's shoulders. He watched for the inevitable reaction.

"Wow," Tony commented — eyes wide, grin spreading all over his face. "That was the worst first kiss I've ever had."

Tim made a face.

"But I'm eager for a second one!" Tony added.

Tim's face didn't change.

"Hey, you said you wanted honesty. This is me being straight with you."

"Not exactly straight," Tim commented.

"Okay," Tony amended, "This is me being gay with you. Better?"

"Not really." He couldn't hold back the breathy laugh. "It's kind of a leap, Tony... you've got to admit."

"I'll admit it," Tony said quickly.

All at once, Tim's face softened. "So now what? You tell me."

"Maybe I can answer that in song?" Tony suggested. "That seemed to work out okay before."

"Please don't!"

" _Never gonna give you up! Never gonna let you down! Never gonna run around and desert you!_ " Tony sang loudly as he danced and jived right into the living room, leaving Tim at the door. " _Never gonna make you cry! Never gonna say goodbye! Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you!_ "

 _Oh boy_.

 

\+ + +

**The end. :)**


End file.
